


A Perfectly Normal Day in London

by Dathedr



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-10-13 08:01:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20579156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dathedr/pseuds/Dathedr
Summary: This is the story of a boy living in the slums of London at the height of the British Empire.A day just like any other.





	A Perfectly Normal Day in London

The mud-stained bread had turned stale days ago, but with the way they boy looked at it, it might as well have been made of gold. After cleaning as much as he could — which was not much, for the boy’s hands were almost just as dirty — his yellowed teeth dug into the hard substance, and his eyes brightened.

He had won it earlier in the day, when he, as always, went near one of London’s main streets to beg for food. A passing servant had dumped the piece of bread along with a pile of other household waste in a nearby dump, but fortunately for him, his eyes were quick, and he had managed to snatch the food before any of the other children had noticed it. Afterwards, he had managed to run past their reaching hands, hugging the bread close to his body.

The boy stopped eating the bread halfway, and pocketed the rest. It was not every day that he got to eat, let alone something as proper as this. More often than not, it would be rotten fish or some other maggoty meat, the latter of which he would have to clean for hours before it would be safe to eat. He hated maggots.  
He left the cozy corner he called home and made his way to work, which was a street which ran along the river Thames. An old man dressed in a worn suit was waiting for him, and the boy waved at him as he came closer. The man thrust a shovel into his hands, with an expression which told him that he did not want to see him again until the end of work, which was several long hours away.

Horse-drawn carriages passed him by, carrying the good men of the upper classes to their destination. As he always did, the boy pictured himself in their gentlemanly clothes, with a dashing suit and a top hat and a monocle framed with gold. He would look great, he thought. One of the factory girls might even turn and look at him then, not with disgust, but with affection in their pretty eyes and sweet words on their lips.

One of the horses neighed, and a pile of steaming manure dropped onto the cobblestone street. A yell from the old man broke the boy’s reverie, and he dashed into the middle of the street, shovel at the ready. He slipped in front of a carriage, earning a curse from the driver, but the boy ignored him. He deftly scooped the horse dung into his shovel and ran back, depositing it into a smelly pile on the side of the road.

He went at it for hours, toiling under the scorching summer sun. The pile of excrement rose higher as he worked, until a cart arrived to haul it away, to be sent to farms located outside of the city. The boy then repeated the process, shoveling pounds and pounds of dung until he smelled just like them.

Just as the sky turned orange, the Big Ben rang six times, signaling the end of his work. The boy pranced back to his overseer, who dropped five pence into his hand, who took every care to avoid contact with his manure-stained hands.

He put the money into his pocket and left with a smile on his face. It would be enough to rent one of the wooden boxes in the old warehouses, where he could sleep for the night without needing to worry about the biting wind and cold rain which often tortured him at night. Not only that, with a couple more days of work, he might even be able to buy a loaf of bread from the bakery.

The boy cried out as long, wiry arms pulled him into an alley. Two men in ragged clothes stared at him with hungry eyes and drooling mouths which revealed their decaying teeth. One of them pointed a long, rusty knife towards him, while the other extended their hand, demanding his hard-earned money.

He tried to slip from their grips, to make his run, but the thugs were too strong, and his efforts were futile. The boy screamed as they reached for him, and he bit one of the outstretched arms. Curses came out from the wounded man, and then he was free. All he needed to do was to turn and run—

Something cold trickled down his stomach. The boy looked down to see the rusty knife lodged in his belly, with his lifeblood flowing out of the wound. He fell to his knees, touching his stomach. It all felt so unreal to him. The boy thought of the wooden box he would never get to sleep on. His eyes darkened, but he could still see the warm loaf of bread, fresh from the baker’s oven. He could even smell it, ever so faintly . . .

The boy collapsed in a pool of his own blood, his still-open eyes unseeing. The two men reached into his pockets and took the dead boy’s pence. As they did so, a piece of mud-encrusted bread rolled out of his pocket, landing mere millimeters in front of his cracked lips. And yet, the boy could not eat no more.

The thugs left him there, disappearing into the darkness of the slums where they lived. Carriages passed by the alley, their noble passengers headed to fancy theaters and elaborate suppers with their peers. Across the Thames, fireworks exploded in red and yellow and green across the sky over sprawling night markets and festivals. Later still, when the moon had risen high to the heavens, the good people of the capital slept in their beds, where they would dream until tomorrow came.

Indeed, it was a perfectly normal day in the city of London.


End file.
